"Look at Mrs. Quayle's jewelry!" she exclaimed. "It is dancing about as if it were moved by a breeze from somewhere." "What do you mean? I can't feel any breeze," declared Leighton. "The singular fluttering of Mrs. Quayle's jewelry simply means, I suppose, that the wearer is, as usual, agitated." That Mrs. Quayle was agitated, and not in the joyous frame of mind that Una at first supposed, began to be painfully evident. Ever since she had come into the cave agitation had been a chronic condition with her. But in this instance it hardly explained the eccentric activity that had suddenly developed among the ancient heirlooms that she guarded so jealously. The large gold pendants that dangled from her necklace beat an unaccountable tattoo upon her neck and shoulders, while the massive brooch fastened to her bodice showed an obstinate tendency to break away from its moorings. Even the gold rings on her fingers seemed possessed with a rebellious spirit, a mischievous desire to dance in unison with brooch and necklace, while two heavy bracelets, made of links and chains, clicked and snapped like castanets under the prevailing terpsichorean influence. For several minutes before Una drew attention to these strange antics Mrs. Quayle had been unhappily aware of the insurrection that had broken out among her treasures and had clutched frantically at them in an unavailing attempt to quiet their ill-timed frenzy. She dabbed at them with one hand and caressed them with the other, only to find that as soon as they were freed from her restraining touch they flapped and jingled and tugged at her with renewed energy. Finally, with the eyes of all the party upon her, the terrified lady gave up in despair. "I don't know what is the matter with them," she wailed; "they never acted this way before. I am not agitated," she added irritably, "as Mr. Leighton says. And I don't think it is a breeze either. It takes more than a breeze to make bracelets and brooches dance. They are just possessed, and for no reason at all. Oh, why did I wear these precious things on this terrible journey!" Doctor Miranda, with the steadfast gaze of an exorcist, planting himself firmly in front of her, his arms crossed on his chest Bonaparte-fashion, added to Mrs. Quayle's dismay. "I think she have the malaria," he announced solemnly. "I give her my pills----" "I won't take your old pills," was the spirited reply. "They nearly did for poor Mr. Andrew. I think they may kill him yet. There is nothing the matter with me. I want to get out of this cave--and I'm going to this very minute."